


Hearts of Oak

by havisham



Category: Robin Hood (Traditional)
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Bisexual Character, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin Hood will live forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts of Oak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IgnobleBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/gifts).



__ Hearts of oak, did you go down  
alive into the homes of death? One visit  
finishes all men but yourselves, twice mortal!

 

 **I.**

The half-darkness of the room seemed to bleed red, somehow, and felt more real than the wet slick of blood on his hands. The staff he’d used fell from his nerveless hands, and Will crumpled to the ground, collapsing next to Stone’s cooling body. 

He heard footsteps coming towards the door, and it swung open, lighting up his mother’s hair and her dress. Her questions died in her throat, as she took in the scene in front of her with widened eyes. Will began to stand, but he found that he couldn’t, not yet. 

“He tried --” 

But his mother heard no more. She pulled him up and wiped the blood from his still-shaking hands. 

“That’s enough,” she said in a quiet voice, and led him to the hall. She threw a cloak over his bright festival clothes (a silk tunic, a scarlet hose) and hung his father’s old sword around his waist. 

The heaviness of the blade woke him from his dull haze. 

“Mother!” He stared at her, his blue eyes wide and terrified. “I have _killed--_ ” 

She pressed a finger on his lips. “I know. You must go to the woods and find your cousin, Robert — or whatever name he’s going by, nowadays. He will help you, for the sake of his dead mother at least.” 

“No. I’ll stay and face punishment, Stone deserved to die. I will state my case and receive justice --” 

“Will! You know your father hangs on to life with but a thread. To have you hanged would kill him utterly. Think of your brothers and sisters, if your father’s pain does not move you. How would they like to see their brother swinging on a gibbet?” 

“It is better that his son, their brother, be an outlaw? I will never see you again! Any of you!” 

“It would be enough to know that you lived.” She kissed his cheek, and he felt a brush of wetness on his cheek, though his own eyes were dry. 

Her last words to him were: “Find Robin.” 

He had been in the woods some days when a stranger, dressed in greens and tans, emerged from the woods and stopped to admire the buck Will had just brought down, moments before. He towered over Will, though that seemed more to do with how close he stood then any serious difference in height between them. If Will looked hard enough, he could see something familar in his face, and in his carriage.

They fought to a standstill, until a bright thread of blood ran down the stranger’s temple, until Will felt as if the whole lower part of his body could be broken off, easily. 

The man swept away the blood with a careless hand, and said with a low laugh, “We can fight until one of us is slain, or we might stop and talk.” An easy decision — he sat on Will’s chest, his fingers digging into Will’s flesh. 

Will nodded, a little sullenly, and the stranger moved off him. Will sat up, and tried to straighten up his clothes, now hopelessly dusty. He stood his head, and sticks and dust fell out. His face was dirty, and though he rubbed at his cheek, rather hopelessly. Will said, “I am called Young Gamwell, from Maxfield.” 

The man waited for him to continue with a patient look.

Straightening, Will said, matter of factly, “I killed my father’s steward and then flew to the English woods to seek my cousin, Robin Hood.” 

Will looked at him, a little sly. “Do you know him?” 

The man made a show of thinking, and furrowed his brow. “I might.” 

A man of gigantic proportions and a spade of a beard, solid and brown, hurtled out of the woods, shouting. “Robin! Are you hurt? We did not hear any sound --” 

“Nay, Little John, come here and meet my cousin, my dear mother’s sister’s son. I saw the resemblance immediately.” Here Robin sprang up, and offered Will his hand, which he took. It was callused and warm, and Robin squeezed it, and gave Will a reassuring smile.

Little John looked doubtful, and but he put down his staff. 

Robin’s good-humored gaze fell upon Will’s hose, torn and ripped from their scuffle, and said, “We’ll call him Scarlet, and he will be second only to yourself, good John, in my heart.” 

 

**II.**

It was Will’s turn to be the dead man. 

He lay on the road, his face daubed with mud. One of Robin’s broken arrows was loosely sewn into his tunic. Overhead, the wind shook the tree tops, and leaves began to fall, slowly, over his body, a natural burial.

The woods were quiet, except for some faint birdsong overhead. A minute passed, or an hour. Will lay perfectly still, and tried not to breathe. 

The peace was eventually broken by the carriage that clattered down the road, its horses huffing and puffing against the strain. The couchman made free with the whip, and a man’s voice rose high above even the noise and strain, admonishing him to go faster. The woods, he said, were full of brigands. 

The coachman spotted Will soon enough, and slowed and stopped. 

“What are you doing? Why are you stopping?” The man’s head emerged from the window of the carriage, his red-mottled face furious, and matching well with his red velvet tunic. 

“There’s a corpse on the road, my lord.” 

“What does it matter? Drive over it.” 

“Father! That would be cruel,” said a young woman’s voice. “Move it out of the way, please William, and then we’ll be on our way.” 

With this, the coachman compiled, over her father’s grumbling. Carelessly, he grabbed Will’s hand and began to drag his body away. Many things happened in the next moment. First, Robin and the others emerged from the woods, their bows and swords drawn, and circled the carriage. Will, newly revived, took his sword hilt (buried in the dirt of the road) and hit it against the coachman’s temple. 

He crumbled to the ground and into Will’s arms, scraping off the arrow shafts from Will’s chest. 

Robin turned to him with a grin. “Well done.” 

The nobleman was livid. If his face was red before, it grew positively volcanic now. He spat at Little John’s feet and his anger seemed to scorch the air in front of Robin’s face. But his fury seemed to have struck him dumb; it was his daughter who spoke. 

Cooly, she stepped from the carriage, a maiden dressed in emerald green, and a jeweled coif with her golden hair braided underneath it. She had the look of a slightly ironic Madonna about her. A necklace of pearls and rubies adorned her white throat. 

“Well now, gentlemen,” she said, and in her clear, high voice, there was not a trace of fear, “what shall we do? Are we to have our throats cut for your pleasure?” 

The men stirred nervously, but Robin laughed and gave her a quick bow. “It is none so dire as that, my lady! My only wish is to show you safe passage through the woods. We ask only for a small donation, for our service.” 

Will, with Little John’s help, had dragged the coachman’s body to the carriage. The coachman himself had begun to stir weakly, and took an uncertain swing at them both. 

“Now, now fellow,” said Little John, “that was quite a blow you had. Rest a while, before you seek vengeance against us.” 

“It’s nothing personal,” Will offered, as they tumbled his body into the carriage and shut the door. 

Of the riches the nobleman had, there were plenty: a small chest full of golden coins, various rings and ornaments on his person, a fine silver flask, and a thick golden chain decorated with the face of a rather ugly-looking angel. 

From the lady, there was the jeweled coif (she shook her hair loose in a brief cloud of gold), and some rings, and hair pins studded with pearls. Robin’s attention lingered long on her necklace, which then he gallantly allowed her to keep. She scoffed sharply and took it off anyway. Before any of them were the wiser, she tossed it sharply against Will’s chest. 

“For your performance,” she said, rewarding him with a mocking smile. 

Will blushed, to the roots of his coal-black hair. He snatched it from the ground and put it around his neck. Robin gave him a wry look, before turning his attention back to her ladyship. “That’s very kind of you. Young Will does not have much in the way of ornaments, I must say. If I knew your name, kind lady, I could thank you properly...?” 

She gave a proud lift of her head. “Marian,” she said. “And there’s no need to ask who you are.”

*****

Hours later, Will still had not taken the necklace off. It dangled around his neck, half-hidden by his red kerchief, the gold chain warmed by his skin. He knew that he ought to hand it over, that even such a paltry thing would feed a village for a month, but still he hesitated to drop it back into the treasure chest, where the other loot was kept. Only a while longer, he thought. I’ll keep it for the night, and then give it back.

Around him, the others talked and sang, their spirits high. The sheriff’s men had been quickly routed and confused, and the day was theirs. One of the king’s deer roasted on the spit, the fat dripping off and falling into the fire with sharp hisses. Will sat near the fire and warmed his hands. Nearby, Allan-a-Dale plucked at a little harp, which was a part of the day’s haul. Only Allan could make harping sound raucous, and that ended sharply with a sound of a string breaking and his muffled curse. 

Will yawned and looked for Robin, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

Perhaps he would like to be alone, tonight. 

With a sigh, Will twisted the necklace around his finger, and bit at his lower lip. He felt a familiar touch at the back of his neck. “Aren’t you hungry, Will?” 

Will shook his head and without another word, Robin sat beside him with a heavy sigh. The fire lit up Robin’s tanned face with a warm glow. Though not exactly a handsome man, Robin had such a way about him that made one forget all about that. There was a sprinkling of freckles on bridge of his nose, which was crooked, from an ancient blow. His hair was the color of hay, newly threshed, and it tended to curl. He had not had it cut for some time, and so it hung shaggily over his eyes. It gave him a sleepy, absent look, which was belied by his eyes, always bright and inquisitive, with humor always close at hand. Robin’s eyes were hazel, but looked at times as green as grass, a sort of eternal summer. 

Will shuffled away and felt a little embarrassed for himself. Comparing Robin’s eyes to summer! Thinking of Robin, so very much! Why, he sounded like some lovesick girl. He tried imagining the Lady Marian thinking of Robin’s eyes, but he couldn’t see it, not at all. 

He touched the necklace cautiously, and looked up to see Robin’s eyes on him. He bumped shoulders with him, and said, “Are you going to give that up?” 

Will said furiously, “Of course! What do you take me for! A thief--” He faltered and blushed. 

Robin cocked his head. “Of course not, I take you for a robber. Anyway, it’s yours, as much as it could be anyone’s now. Marian gave it to you.”

“Yes, Marian,” Will replied gloomily. 

“She is a fine woman,” Robin said. “I think she might have really taken a shine to me.” 

“Really. Was the before or after she took a swing at you?” 

Robin chuckled. “After.” 

Will decided then that he had no wish to talk of Marian, and so got up and stretched with a sigh, and left Robin there. Suddenly famished, he sweet-talked the cook into giving him something hot to eat. When he wandered back to his sitting-place, Robin was gone. 

The night, which had once held so much promise, now stretched out dully ahead of him. He took his bedroll and laid it out on the ground near the base of the oak tree. The other men were still out and about, though some too had chosen to get some sleep. Nearby, Much, the Miller’s son, snored gently. The wind whispered among the leaves, and the moon, half-hid by clouds, emerged again, bathing the clearing with silver light, swift and shifting. 

He slept for perhaps an hour or two, and when he woke again and the hubbub had died down. There was only the sounds of the woods at night, in the summer-time. A sudden rush of owl’s wings broke the silence, and then a frightened squeak of its prey. 

Will got up and rolled up his bedroll. He heard something, perhaps, or saw something in the corner of his eye. In any case, he began to walk away from the oak tree that served as their sleeping quarters, and stepped back into the heart of the woods. The moon had retreated behind a bank of clouds, but there was still enough light to see by. 

He knew that Robin was there by a small but deliberate snap of branches behind him. Then Robin’s voice, warm and low, came to him. “Will.” 

Will turned only at the sound his voice and closed the space between them with a few steps. Robin took a few steps back, until he was pressed against a tree. He was taller than Will, he always would be, and so he bent down, a little, to kiss him. Will caught the kiss and held it, bringing his entire body into it. 

Robin was always demonstrative, affectionate to those he loved (and his love was generous), a smile there, a embrace here, a quick clasp of the shoulder, he never hesitated to touch. And he flirted, with everyone. With women, with men, friars and nuns, with those he robbed, and those he gave to. 

Yes, Robin was very _free._

All the same, when Will had first summoned up the courage to kiss him (on the lips, and not on the cheek) Robin, fearless in all things, had looked almost afraid. Even now, he pulled back a little, and regarded Will shyly. “Is this what you want, Will?” 

Will pulled at Robin’s clothes, impatient. “You know it is.” 

And Robin’s smile was sharper now. Will shivered, though it was not cold. He let himself be pushed against the tree now, let Robin’s fast and clever hands make short work of his hose. Tree bark scraped against the back his neck, but he could think nothing of it, when Robin caressed his thighs, and thumbed at his cock. 

“Robin, please.” Will’s voice was breathless and high, need dripping out of every desperate syllable. He seemed feel every callus on Robin’s hand, as the other man carefully jerked him off. He rocked back and forth, into Robin’s sure grip. 

It was not until Robin fucked him, with his face pressed against the tree, that Will saw _it. It_ was glaringly obvious, _it_ was something he had failed to consider, and it was that he wanted Robin, that he loved Robin, and only Robin, and would so do for as long he lived. (However short a time that happened to be.) 

All of his losses: family, home, innocence, they had been worth it. Surely, he would fry in Hell for all that he had done, but the sweet rightness of Robin’s body, pressed against his, was surely the least of it. 

A heretic _and_ a murderer, how proud his mother would be of her son! _It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter_ , chanted a persistent little voice in his head. Robin’s oil-slicked hands dug into his hips, sliding down and down. There was no sound except the ones of their bodies meeting, and a few ragged moans that escaped his lips. Robin’s warm breath touched his neck, his mouth bit at his shoulder. 

After a gasp (or a chuckle) as he came and pulled out, Robin said, “Darling Scarlet, speak! Or have I killed you with my cock?” 

Will wheezed out a laugh. “Ha... As if I could be killed with such a paltry thing like that...”

With a quiet roar, Robin pulled him down to the ground, and threw his cloak around them.

*****

Will woke to the sound of rain hitting the leaves above him. Droplets fell on his face, and with sigh, he nudged Robin awake. Robin stirred with a groan, and pressed one last kiss onto Will’s shoulder. Will winced and touched his cheek gingerly. It felt as though he had been scratched by a particularly unforgiving cat.

It grew too cold and wet to do very much more than to seek their scattered clothes, as best they could. Will pulled on his sodden breaches with an unhappy sigh, and then bent down to pick up the necklace, that had become wedged in between two tree roots. He straightened up, and handed it to Robin, who looked at it carelessly, and put it into his pocket. Then, thinking better of it, he took it out and broke off a bit of it. 

“Keep this as a memento,” he said with a grin, and handing back it to Will. Will shoved him, and he slipped a little on the wet ground, and pulled Will along with him, out of the shade of the trees. The rain fell on them in windy gusts, and Robin broke into a run. Will followed behind, his voice lost in the steady pour of water and the rising wind. 

“Robin! Slow down! What about breakfast?” 

 

 **III.**

“... If you go, you will surely die. The sheriff makes no attempt to hide that this contest is only a means to trap you. Robin! Listen to me for once, please, and don’t be stupid,” Will said loudly, and looked around for support. 

The men had rarely looked less merry than they did at that moment. Even the Friar, who was, in his heart an irrepressible soul, looked grave. Much’s eyes were red, and Allan looked as if he wanted to break something. Little John, who so far had said nothing, raised his hand to stop all conversation, and even Will, who wanted to push on, fell silent. 

Robin, surrounded, only shook his head. 

“I must do this,” he said, his voice serious. It brooked no disagreement. 

“I must,” he repeated, as if to convince himself, and then he turned away. 

*  
It was dark when Will slipped into Robin’s tent, though he didn’t fool himself into thinking that he went unobserved by anyone. His relationship with Robin was no secret to anyone who would care to know, but still, it was the habit of long years to blow out the lamps as soon as he had entered. Robin stirred from his pallet, and sat up, his face expectant. 

“When do you leave?” Will sat down beside him with a thump, ignoring the rising dust around him. Robin sighed and shook his head. 

“At dawn. Or perhaps a little later.” 

“Imagine, the heroic Robin Hood, wishing to lie abed all day! That’ll never make it in the ballads.” 

Robin raised his eyebrows (he could never do just the one, however he tried), and said, “Ballads?” 

“I can’t believe you haven’t heard them singing about you in the marketplace. Heroic Robin Hood, rescuing maidens, tricking the sheriff, taking from the rich, giving to the poor. I’m surprised that no one’s thought to go through our expenses, to see just how much we do give away.” 

Robin laughed quietly, and then said, “Will, you know that I have to do this.” 

“No, I don’t. We could do this for few a more years and then we could go --” Here, his imagination failed him. “Anywhere. France. The Levant. Cathay. We could become pirates, take all of this to the sea! It doesn’t have to end this way. Even _she_ would agree to that.” 

“You and Marian have far more in common that you’d suppose,” Robin said finally. Will snorted and shook his head. In common with her Ladyship? God forbid!

With a strike of a flint, Robin lit one of the lamps again. The tent filled with a tremulous, yellow light. Robin began to cast about the tent, looking for something, avoiding Will’s eye. There were silver streaks in his light-colored hair now, and lines on his face, put there by squinting at the sun and laughing — always and forever, Robin took more joy in his life than anyone else Will had ever known — all of it engraved on his face, as ink on a page. He was beautiful, in Will’s eyes, more now than he had ever been before. 

Robin turned back to him and said, “Will, have you seen...?” 

Will held up Robin’s favorite hunting knife, and Robin took it back with a murmured thanks. And then, with much deliberation, Robin leaned in, and kissed Will. Will pulled him down on top of him with a sigh. 

He wanted Robin, alive and whole, with him. Was that such a terrible thing to want? He helped Robin out of his clothes, and ran his fingers down down his flanks. He fingered the scar on Robin’s chest. Gisborne’s sword had put it there. There was another one on his stomach, long and thin, that the Friar had despaired of, the one which had made Robin hover for days between life and death, days that had made Will tear at his hair and consider, briefly, sending word to Lady Marian. 

And now, it was only a faded red line on Robin’s smooth, brown skin. 

Will knew the scars, the marks, the oddities of Robin’s body far better than he did of his own. He had made Robin’s body the object of his study, after all, these long years that they had had together. 

It was unkind, to be sure, to be glad now that he had all of this, while Marian, who was accounted by all to be Robin Hood’s beloved, his true love, had none of it. How barren her life had been before! How barren it would be after! He blinked. Was he feeling pity for Lady Marian? Certainly not! 

And then the world shifted and narrowed, and contained only him and Robin. 

There was no room for anyone else. 

****

*

Robin was speaking, though he did not follow what he said. Hm. Follow. “... And you promise, Will Scarlet, on all that you hold dear, that you will not follow me tomorrow? Because you’re right — Will, stay awake, you’ll not hear this from me again. _Will_.” Robin kissed him awake, and Will smiled a little and fluttered his lashes. True, the last of his boyish good looks had faded into something far grimmer, but with Robin, at least, he could still prove to be something of a coquette. 

“I’m listening,” he said, tracing his fingers across Robin’s chest, and down his body, to his cock, and tangling them in the curls he found there. He tightened his hold, and watched with hooded eyes as Robin’s mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out except a quiet groan. 

Robin dropped his head on to Will’s shoulder and he whispered, “Scarlet, listen to me. Don’t follow me tomorrow. Stay away as long as you can, and keep doing what we do, for as long as you can. The men will follow you.” 

“Not Little John. He follows only you.” 

“When I am dead — no, Will, _listen_ , stop shaking your head. We have an agreement, he and I. When I am dead, he will go back to his village and try to find his wife and child. It is a bargain we have had these twenty years.” He bit his lip and groaned aloud. “Oh, Will, you undo me...” 

“Robin,” Will said, and nothing else. 

“Don’t come for me. Go, before they come for you. Take as many with you as you can. Make sure they don’t spread too many lies about me. Live, for a while. Promise me this, if you love me even a little. _Promise_.” 

And he promised. 

And he lied, as Robin knew he would. But on that count, it did not matter. The castle, when they arrived, was in disarray and half-burnt. The sheriff was imprisoned and Gisborne, dead. There were even some stray royalty about, a scheming prince and some careless king whose lion-heart beat for foreign shores. All had been a squabble between between these brothers, both too spoiled and entitled, and both willing to throw England into ruins for their pride. 

What did Will care for kings?

They were all the same, as far as he could see. Only the names changed, nothing else. 

As to what happened to Robin, there were more stories about that then there were people to tell them. Some said that Gisborne killed him, as he killed Gisborne. Some said he drowned, some other said he burned. A bright-eyed madman claimed to have seen two angels come down heaven and bear Robin Hood up to his eternal reward. 

That story, at least, Will said, they could discount. 

**IV.**

A little novice approached him with a handful of apples. They were red and bright, the same color as the freckles on her face. She looked up at him shyly and said, “Will you not have one? The Abbess said you might.” 

Old Gam blinked and looked around. He had not thought that he had been noticed, an old man in a crowd of old men. He hesitated and the novice disappeared, only to return again a few moments later and beckon him forward. She turned before he could shake his head, and made her way forward, her white coif bobbing through the grey and weary crowd. 

He followed her out from sweltering courtyard and into the cool gateway, where he was stopped by the guards. The little novice appeared and waved him through, saying that the Abbess would like to see him. He followed her along without another word, up a flight of stairs and then another. The scents of beeswax and baking bread, and the sound of women’s voices rose up to greet him. Through an open door, the little novice ushered him through. 

When he entered, the door closed behind him, and he was alone. Or not alone, for a woman looked up from her ledger and eyed at him quizzically. She was finely dressed, as befitting her station, her hair was white under her coif. Her fine-boned face was the color of ivory, and soft wrinkles softening what was once great beauty. 

Her eyes were sharp and alert, the color of deep water. 

He bowed awkwardly, his knees creaking in protest. “You wanted to see me, Reverend Mother?” 

Her voice was crisp, and unchanged in all the years he had heard it last. “Sit down, Will Scarlet, and do not test my patience.” 

He sat. 

They stared at each other for a moment, before she bent her head down, and made a quick note in her ledger. “I am surprised to find you alive, I must say. I thought you’d died fighting, long ago.” 

He shrugged. “I stopped fighting when I knew that I could no longer win. I was never a hero, not like --” And he stopped, and looked at her. She had turned all of her attention back to him, her eyes were bright with interest, and something else entirely. 

“Yes,” she said slowly. “He was quite unique. A fool, surely.” And she raised an eyebrow at him, expecting him to challenge her. Instead, he shrugged again. 

“They still sing of him.” 

“And what rubbish they sing. They reduced me to a maid, you know. Imagine that! And you, to a pretty simperer.” Here, he knew she was baiting him, and he smiled, before he could stop himself. 

“Maid Marian scans better, the harpers tell me, than Lady Marian did.” 

She made a displeased noise. “I suppose you have no objections at being remembered as a dandy?” 

“No." He felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards into a reluctant smile. “None at all.” 

And indeed, he did not feel old, not really. Yes, his body was now home to a thousand different aches and pains, and his hands were gnarled and almost useless. But -- but he felt at times that all he needed to do was spring up, and he would be young again, that he would be able to run, to the forest, to Robin.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but his eyes were quite dry. 

Marian's voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. “You look like him. If he had been allowed to grow old.” 

He blinked, unnerved. The thought had never occurred to him. Robin had always been something so entirely himself, that the thought that he could look like anyone, especially Will, was astonishing. 

“He and I were cousins. Our mothers were sisters.” His mother, he had later learned, had died the spring he had left home. Another life scrubbed away, with only some stubborn traces of memory left. “I did not think we were especially alike.” 

“No,” she said, “perhaps not.” 

He fished around his pockets for something. She stared at the flotsam he unearthed in his search. Bits of feathers, a broken arrowhead, and a few coins. “Here,” he said at last, dropping a little chunk of gold, encrusted with a pearl, on her ledger. The ruby had long since fallen out. She took it up and laid on the palm of her hand. 

She said, with a sense of deep wonder; “How ugly that necklace was!” 

He gave a startled laugh. It was dry and ended as a cough. Without a word, she nodded at a pitcher of water on a little table near her desk. He took a long drink, and turned to see the little novice come into the room and set forth a tray of bread and cheese, and sliced apples for them. She gave him a brief smile, and left again, closing the door behind her softly. 

They ate quite companionably. He asked questions about the cheese and apples, she answering him, pleasantly. The conversation ended as soon as the food did, and they were back to staring at each other, still uneasy. 

She dusted off her fingertips with invisible crumbs and said, “Well!” 

He started. “How I envied you!” 

“How I envied you!” she replied. “Though I knew it was silly. Living in the woods like that, it must have been terrible.” 

“It rained quite often,” he said simply. “And I suppose you were very bored, in the castle. I didn’t think you would have taken up with someone like Robin, if you were very satisfied with how your life was.” 

She gave him a considering look. “I always thought he was frightfully optimistic about your intelligence. But perhaps I was wrong.” 

“He always said you and I had much in common. I always thought he was full of shite.” 

“That he was.” 

And they shared a moment of perfect understanding. Then he got up, a little painfully, but with his back straight. He knew that she was watching him. With a more elaborate bow than he had used before, he said to her, “Lady Marian, it was a true pleasure to see you again. I hope you can forgive me for robbing you, all those years ago.” 

“I do,” she said, and offered him her hand, which was dry and smooth. Always, a lady’s hand. He kissed it, and opened the door and stepped through it. 

“Goodbye, Will,” she said, as he closed it behind him. 

“Goodbye, Marian,” he said, mostly to himself, as the little novice appeared again, to lead him downstairs. At the gate, she handed him a basket of apples and little brown rolls of beard. 

She said, “The Abbess said you should have this.” 

“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. And then thinking of it, before she had disappeared from view, he said, “May I know your name?” 

She cocked her head, and then said, “Sister Clotilde, or I shall be soon.” 

“And before?” 

She laughed. “So you heard of it! My name was Robin. My mother said that when I was born, I reminded her of a little bird.” 

“Oh,” he said. “That was a pretty name.” 

“I didn’t like it very much,” she confessed. 

“Well, it is good change, then. Goodbye!” And he took leave of her, bowing for the last time.

Gravely, she bowed back, and waved to him until she disappeared, out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Epigraph from _The Odyssey_. Thank you to my betas, Emma and King Touchy!


End file.
